Excuses

Drinking and posting. Not that I've drunk enough to drink and dial, and therefore I'm not intoxicated enoguh to drink and post. But just enough to come home and blast the music that I've composed over the last two+ years, enough to sing along and dig up the sad, pathetic, anti-poetic lyrics I've scrawled and somehow been unembarassed by because they're sung rather than written. Fully 8 months since I had the place and the space to write music, and now I'm staring at a wall, wondering if a few well-placed shelves might make it possible again. Which is to say, "I have this thing I do in order not to work, that seems substantive, inasmuch as it's creative rather than consumptive." Net value, however, is anybody's guess. "Consistency is all I ask and all I ever wanted / Consistency is all I lack." Just pretend I'm a 13-year old Polish girl, blogging my boy troubles. It's less embarassing that way. And this space, too, confined and limited by audiences. So my music plays on, the first thing I wrote in 2002. Impossibly long ago. Perhaps the upcoming trip back to England has me? Has me here has me there has me off my feet and desparate for more? Or perhaps it's the self-indulgent construction of self? The "I have work to do. I know! I'll buy a book of Celan's poetry and re-read A Sentimental Education and then I'll be fucked up" impulse? But even my pathetic attempts at creating sound sound, to me, like the desire for something bigger, something more important, something somehow more real. Ah, to be 17 again, when this came un-self-consciously. Or perhaps it never did. Yet another construction. My name's Matt, and I'm a professional critic....